


Soap Opera

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M, bubblefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night Weiss finally makes a move on Sydney Bristow couldn't be any more romantic -- jazz music, candlelight and bubblebath.  What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soap Opera

**Author's Note:**

  * For [em_meredith](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=em_meredith).



> Set during what would've been the early part of an alternate season four.

So, Syd's doing that thing she does. Again.

I don't mean the thing she does where she tucks her hair behind her ear, or the thing where she gives me a quick smile right when we sit down for briefings, or even the thing where she calls up and asks me what movies she ought to put in her Netflix queue, just because she assumes we're gonna watch them together. The OTHER thing.

(Yeah, I could name them all, but once I start coming up with labels for every one of Syd's habits, I think I cross that line between "good buddy with a minor, totally understandable crush" and "stalker." I like this side of the line. I'm staying here.)

The thing I'm talking about is the one where she calls me up late at night – not so late that it would be an emergency, but late enough that we're both settled in. Usually she's got her pajamas on. Me, I'm in sweatpants and a Mavs T-shirt, drinking a Sam Adams and watching one of the ninety zillion daily reruns of "Law and Order." Right after the chimes, the phone rings, and my hand's on the receiver the second it does, almost like I'm expecting it.

I guess I am expecting it. She calls pretty often, these days. It used to be about once a month, and then about once a week, and now – well, not every night, but a lot. And, as it turns out, tonight.

"Yello?" There's a pause – like, half a second, and I hope like hell that's not Dixon on the other end of the line, and that I didn't just respond to a dirty-bomb threat in downtown Los Angeles with a hearty Yello.

"Eric. Hey." Nope, it's Syd. Whew. "Hope I'm not calling too late."

"Nope. They haven't even gotten to the Order half of 'Law and Order.' What's up?"

(I always ask her what's up when she calls. By now, I know what's up: She's depressed, and she wants somebody to talk to – not about whatever it is that's bothering her, about anything else in the world instead of that. But I always ask, anyway.)

"Oh, just – you know. Hanging around. Being boring."

"You, Sydney Bristow, are never boring." I point my finger for emphasis, which is dopey because she's on the phone, but I mean it anyway. "You found something better on TV?"

"I, uh, I got some new CDs today. Was just listening to some music. Miles Davis, actually."

"Kind of Blue?" I'm talking about the album, of course, but I figure it's a good segue.

Then she surprises me. "No. That's one of the first ones I bought again, when I got back." That's the euphemism Syd uses for her return from the dead – got back. Man, I'll never understand how she talks about it that casually. I still remember walking into her hospital room and seeing her; it was like I'd never seen her before. Sometimes I wonder if I fell – if I developed this inconvenient crush right then. Or maybe it had been around longer, but I just didn't know it until that moment.

"So, what is it? I don't know enough about jazz to keep guessing."

Love it when Syd laughs. "Love songs. There's even a Disney song on here; can you believe it?"

"Which one?" I'm totally blanking out on Disney songs, except "Hakuna Matata," and I bet that's not it.

"'Someday My Prince Will Come.'"

Yep, I knew it. This is going to be about Vaughn after all. She's just hiding it a little better tonight. "You got any Sam Adams?"

"Nope. Meant to go to the store after work, but I didn't get around to it."

"Well, then, it's your lucky night, because I've got a whole case, and I'm in a mood to walk a couple bottles over to your place."

"Would you?" How is it I can hear her smile when she talks? "Because that would be great."

"I'll be right there." I shut off the TV with one hand while I hang up with the other. Don't really need to see the end of "Law and Order," now, do I? The bad guys probably end up in jail anyway; that's one reason I like TV better than real life, which tends to be a lot more disappointing.

**

I have the whole walk across the courtyard to think about what I'm doing, not just tonight, but with Syd in general.

When we started hanging out a year ago, it just made sense. I found her the apartment in my building because she needed a place on short notice, and these units are easy to refit to our security standards. After that, it was my duty as her neighbor to try and help her ease back into the life she'd lost for two years. If I really liked hanging around with her – drinking wine and talking and joking around until 2 a.m. – well, okay. Who wouldn't like hanging around with Syd? Besides, she needed somebody to talk to, and bad.

Vaughn's return to Sydney was my cue to exit, stage left. My next role in Syd's life was probably gonna be as Best Man at her wedding, and I was okay with that. At least I really wanted to be okay with that. I was trying.

Because – you know, it wasn't ever gonna be me. Not ever. Women like Sydney Bristow don't end up with guys like me. Women like Sydney end up with guys like Vaughn. Guys who have the body and the face and the cool apartment and the season tickets. These guys, it's like candlelight dinners and long walks on the beach just materialize around them; they step right out of a soap opera, and they're so damn nice you can't even hate 'em for it. Vaughn's one of those guys. That's why I figured that, once he was single again, I was pretty much out of the picture.

But then Syd had some falling-out with her dad – I don't know the details, which apparently are classified beyond the reach of us lowlier types – and for whatever reason, Sydney didn't feel like talking about it with Vaughn much. I figured she'd spent so much time being blue about Vaughn that she wanted to save all her good moods for him now. I didn't mind just having her sad moods, if that was what I could have.

We didn't discuss the problems with her dad that often, or in much detail, but she'd do that thing where she calls late at night, and I'd distract her. Get her back in a good mood, so that she could be Vaughn's girl again.

(I'm joking, there. Not being bitter. I'm not that bitter a person, unless we're talking about the Cubs in 2003 and that goddamned sonofabitch who just haaaaaad to grab himself a foul ball.)

After a few months, Jack Bristow got himself out of the doghouse somehow. But once more, the obsolescence of Eric Weiss was delayed. Because that's right around the time Syd and Vaughn started to go to hell.

I've asked Vaughn what happened. He can't explain it any better than Sydney.

"Unrealistic expectations," he said last week, while we were playing racquetball. "We'd built each other up as the answers to all our individual problems. And nobody can be that for another person."

"No shit," I panted. Sweat was pouring off me, and I wanted to die. But not while Vaughn was still up a point, nuh-uh. I was going to die with honor. "You guys can work through that."

"We could if Sydney wanted to." Vaughn served again, and I slammed it back. He missed the ball by a mile; I kinda thought he wasn't concentrating, but I'll take my points where I can get them. "She doesn't want to. Not anymore."

"You two aren't over." I said it because I believed it. I can't afford to let myself not believe that. "You're just having trouble getting it in gear."

"We're over." Vaughn said it just the same way I'd said they weren't over – like he had to believe it. "And you and me? We're tied. You want to leave it at that?"

My face was hot, and I was exhausted, and I was pretty sure I looked like a beefsteak tomato. It would've been real easy to stop.

Instead I said, "I play for keeps, buddy. My serve."

Okay, the point of that whole story? As soon as Sydney wasn't upset about her dad anymore, she was upset about Vaughn again. This means that I've been talking to Sydney and making trips up to her apartment for about a year and a half now. And as a result, I have a minor, totally understandable crush.

But I don't kid myself that it's ever gonna be anything more than that. I know the score. Syd and Vaughn – they're the soap opera. I'm just the commercial break.

**

Sydney isn't wearing pajamas.

Technically, she's wearing pajama pants – but they're kinda loose and hang so low on her hips that it's way, way too easy to imagine them falling off. On top of that she's got on this little tank top – it's that color that's not quite purple and not quite blue, and it's so thin that I can see the outline of her belly button. (Not even looking at the chest area, no way. That way lies danger.) Her hair's all down and soft around her face, and she's still wearing her makeup, and she looks completely, totally beautiful.

She's got a couple of candles lit – she does that sometimes, like most girls. Me, I don't get the whole appeal of little fire hazards all over the place, but I gotta admit, the candlelight's working for her. Working real, real well.

Some nights it's harder than usual to be Sydney's friend. Tonight looks like it's shaping up to be one of those nights.

Miles Davis' trumpet fills the room as she smiles at me. "Thanks for coming by. Sometimes I feel guilty, dragging you over here all the time."

"Don't feel guilty." I twist the tops off two beers, hand one to her and start drinking the other myself. I already need it. "I like coming over here."

"I know. You're always here when I need you." Syd's voice is different, when she says this – kinda soft. Kinda like the way I let myself dream of her talking to me, sometimes, when my imagination runs away with me. "Sit down. Let's listen to some music."

"If we're listening to music, we're not talking," I point out.

She just grins and pats the sofa, right next to her. Usually I sit on the other couch – that's the Official Eric Weiss Safety Zone – but hey, don't want to be rude. Besides, she looks great, and she smells even better, and being close to Syd is never, ever a bad thing. "We'll talk later. We can listen to Miles Davis now."

"And drink."

"And drink." She sips her beer and settles beside me, her head lolling back onto the pillows of the couch. When she does that, her neck is this one, long perfect line. Our shoulders touch, just slightly, but I feel it along every inch.

It's a crush, just a crush. A minor and totally understandable crush. But I swear to God, any heterosexual man would go just a little bit crazy if he had Sydney Bristow half-clothed right next to him. And any bisexual man. Even some gay guys might just have to jump the line for a night. I mean, look at her. Long legs, flat belly – not looking at the chest area, but memory fills in the details there – her neck, her lips, her eyes –

\--which are looking right at me while I check her out.

So I take another drink, fast, and start talking about the first thing that comes into my head. "I'm not dissing Miles Davis here, but I prefer jazz with a little more kick to it, you know? Dizzy Gillespie, that's my man."

"I think this is nice," Syd insists. "It's relaxing. Romantic."

Okay, she wouldn't have said that if she had any idea where my brain just went. Which means I'm off the hook for staring at her. I ought to feel more relieved than disappointed, right?

"How was your day?" she murmurs. Back when all this started, she didn't really ask about me much. That's changed, slowly. It's nice.

"Okay. Marshall kept making me come in for fittings on this prototype for an anti-thermal suit. The prototype is bright red. I look like the Kool-Aid Man in that thing."

Syd's laughter is the best sound on the planet. "No, you don't. No handle."

"Love handles, baby." I thump my own belly. "Seriously, it's depressing. I come in under agency fitness standards, but I'm still fat. Girthy. Largish."

"You're not fat." Syd says it like she means it, and sits up to look me in the face. That brings her closer to me, but fortunately we're talking about my permanent status as a lard-ass, which kinda puts a damper on the unrequited sexual tension. "Don't say that."

"Just the facts, ma'am."

She's frowning at me now. There's kind of a pouty thing going on with her lips, which I'm getting into way too much. "I wish you wouldn't put yourself down all the time."

"What am I supposed to say? That I'm some hard-bodied stud? Maybe if I'm onstage at a comedy club." I take another gulp of beer. "I mean, get real, Syd. When you look at me, you don't see a hot guy, do you?"

I only ask her this because I'm 100% convinced the answer is no. Well, that's the honest answer. What Syd's actually going to say is something about my great personality, or how a sense of humor is really important, or one of the other tactful outs I've gotten over the years. I'm ready for any of that.

What I'm not ready for is what she actually does say.

"Yeah," Sydney says. "I do."

Our eyes meet. She isn't joking. She's really, really not joking.

Oh, my God.

"Syd." It feels like work, saying her name out loud. It's hard to do. "Come on."

"You're handsome, Eric." She leans just the tiniest bit closer to me, and my heart turns over in my chest. "I wish you'd start acting like it."

The soap opera just spilled over into my real life, and I'm in the middle of it. The candles, the soft music – why the hell didn't I see it before? Oh, God, oh, Jesus, I don't know what to do in the soap opera. Beer and jokes and pizza, that I can handle. But this?

I lift one hand to her shoulder and touch her, with just one finger. Not much, enough to leave me some plausible deniability. But Syd closes her eyes, and she kinda sighs, and then I'm stroking her shoulder and her arm, back and forth, back and forth. I never imagined her skin would feel this warm. "So, help me out here." My voice doesn't crack as I say it, which is a surprise. "What would a handsome guy do in a situation like this?"

Sydney smiles, a lazy smile I never ,ever thought was going to be directed at me. "I think he'd follow his instincts."

Leaning forward, I tilt my face and brush one finger beneath her lips. She opens her mouth just a little bit as she does it – like it feels good, like she'd been waiting for it – and that's it. I'm gone.

I kiss her. I kiss Sydney Bristow.

Our mouths meet gently at first, but it's her and it's me and before I know it I've got her in my arms, kissing her hard. Sydney makes this tiny sound, like a whimper, and she pulls me closer while she pushes her tongue between my lips. Now my hands are all over that tank top, on her belly, on her legs. She isn't pulling away. She likes it. She wants more. This is the sexiest moment of my entire life.

And it is also the most terrifying thing that has ever, ever happened to me.

What's going on here? What's going to happen after this? I don't have a damned clue.

Then she pulls me with her as she lies down on the sofa, so my body's on top of hers, and I stop being such a fuckin' girl. I don't give a damn about tomorrow. I can't think about anything but her.

We kiss, and we kiss, and it just keeps on going. Miles Davis keeps playing his trumpet, and the candles burn, and my body hurts for her. Her mouth is warm and soft beneath mine, and she tastes so good. Sydney's everything I ever dreamed she'd be, and I dreamed of her a lot.

Finally, when I've pushed that tank top up to the underside of her breasts, and her legs are on either side of me, I pull my mouth away from her skin long enough to say, "Syd – seems like the time to mention – I, uh, didn't bring anything --" What I'm not going to add is that the condoms in my apartment have probably gone bad, either from age or despair.

"I've got some," she murmurs into my neck. "Bought them on the way home."

"Thought you said you didn't go to the store on the way home."

"Just didn't buy beer." Syd grins up at me. "If I had, I wouldn't have had any excuse for inviting you over so late."

The full meaning of that starts to settle in. "I think I've been seduced."

"Took you long enough to catch on." When she laughs, she seems like herself again – which is the first time it occurs to me that she hasn't seemed exactly like herself all night.

Then again, what do I know about how Sydney acts when she's getting ready to make love? Not nearly enough, that's what.

So I look into Syd's eyes and say the words I never thought I'd actually speak out loud: "Do you want to go to the bedroom?"

"Tell you what." She kisses my shoulder, my chest, my chin. "Why don't you run us a bubble bath?"

Right now, Syd could ask me to do a striptease to Cher's "Believe," and I'd do it. "Okay," I whisper before I kiss her again. I will never, ever get over what it feels like, kissing her.

Then she's headed toward her room, to take her clothes off – oh, God – and I'm in the bathroom. There's a little candle burning beside the sink; she planned this, too. Man, when girls do the seduction thing, they really go for it. My idea of big planning usually means changing the sheets.

The candle's burning, and everything smells like lavender or lilac or some damn flower, and Syd's got this enormous tub with Jacuzzi jets. This is a total soap-opera moment. And even if I just spent the last half-hour making out with Sydney, I'm still not a soap-opera guy –

I'm gonna deal with it. This might not happen again.

After the water's going, I grab the bottle of bath bubbles and start pouring – no idea how much to use, so I pour in a lot. Might as well, right? Then I hit the Jacuzzi jets, make it all foamy. It's getting hot and steamy in here, in a very good way.

Okay. Sydney's coming in just a few seconds, and we're going to get in the tub together – oh, man, this is a good mental picture – and the rest of it will work out. Tomorrow morning, everything that comes after, all of it. It's gonna work. Or I'm gonna worry about it not working tomorrow.

Just as I'm wondering whether to get naked now or later, Sydney throws open the door; she's got on this blue silk kimono that would stop my heart, if it weren't for the horrified expression on her face. "Oh, NO."

"Syd?"

"Eric – the bath! You can't put bubble bath in the Jacuzzi while it's on!'

"Why not?" I say as I turn around. Actually, I just kinda say, "Why –" and then just stop and stare.

Because the Great Wall of Suds is forming behind us.

"Oh, shit." I start slapping the side of the tub, trying to find the Jacuzzi control, but it's completely hidden. The foam is getting higher and higher, spilling over the edge. Already it's about as high as I am.

"Let me! I've got it!" Sydney shimmies through the suds ahead of me, just as another enormous mound billows up from the soapy depths. The bathroom's already almost halfway full of the stuff. She halfway slips, and I catch her, but not before she's knocked all this stuff off the sink – toothbrush, mug, soap. As the suds pour over the rim, the little candle goes out, and it's just me and Syd, battling the bathtub in the dark.

Finally she lunges, and the Jacuzzi turns off, and I push some of the bubbles out of the way so I can see the damage. The stuff's halfway down the hall by now.

Great. Just great. Some kind of romantic evening this turned out to be.

But as I turn around, I see that Sydney's smiling, And then she's laughing. And then I'm laughing with her.

"Your face –" she gasps. "When you saw them –"

"What can I say? I'm not a bubble-bath kind of guy."

"Why didn't you say so?"

She's still giggling, but I might as well get real. "Didn't want to mess things up," I say. "I felt like – if I got off script, you might change your mind."

"Off script?" Sydney's face falls, but then she steps a little closer – bubbles crackling all around her – and puts her hands on my shoulders. "I overdid it, didn't I? The whole seduction thing."

"It was good. No, seriously, it was very good. Great. I just –" Telling her the truth might be the stupidest thing I've ever done, but this is Sydney, and I can't give her anything less. "I just didn't know if it was me you wanted, or only some guy. Any guy."

Instead of hauling off and whacking me one, she raises an eyebrow. "You thought this was a booty call?"

"Not that I would necessarily object to that. Just wanted to know."

"It's more than sex. At least – it is for me –"

"For me too." I can't believe I'm reassuring Sydney Bristow that I'm not only after her body. When did the world turn upside down? Can it stay this way? "Syd, I'm crazy about you. I have been for a long time."

"I'm glad." Her lips turn up in the tiniest, most perfect little smile. "Because you're always the one who's here for me. You know when to talk, and when to listen, and how to make me laugh. And you never make me cry. It took me a long time to figure out that the way I felt about you – had changed. But now I know."

"Syd." I kiss her again, and it's better than before. Even if we are standing up instead of lying down, and even if we are surrounded by a thousand cubic feet of bubbles. Because this time I know where I stand. This time, I know it's for real.

When our mouths part, I can't stop smiling. "So what's with the candles and the bubble bath and the Miles Davis, anyway? If you wanted to seduce me, a simple 'let's go' would have done it."

She laughs. "I wanted it to be special."

"Couldn't ever be anything else." We kiss for a while longer, and we keep kissing the whole time we mop the suds up, and by the time we're in the bedroom, we're laughing so hard my face hurts. Not too much to kiss her again, though, as we settle back onto the bed.

So, maybe it turns out I am the soap-opera guy after all. Even soap operas need comic relief.

THE END


End file.
